Whole Surrender
by on rooftops
Summary: Because if she had met him first, if she had seen him and heard his confessions…who's to say it would have gone that way, the way it did? — Charlie/Fleur


**Disclaimer:** I own neither Harry Potter nor Train.

**A/N:** Quick character sketch.

_Marry me today and every day_

_Marry me if I ever get the nerve to say hello in this café_

_Say you will, say you will_

_Together can never be close enough for me_

**Train: Marry Me**

In his family he was an anomaly, the unexpected black sheep, the person everyone whispered about; they said that his dragons had prevented him from falling in love. His mother assumed that what he felt for a common Welsh Green equaled what she had first felt for his father all those years ago – a burning, breath-grasping, consuming, painful obsession that just – wouldn't – free – him. No matter what he tried, she thought, he just couldn't escape the pull of the danger inherent in the dragons' slicing scales and ripping breaths.

His mother was mistaken. They all were.

Dragons fascinated Charlie from the moment he first saw one on a weekend trip for his NEWT Level Care of Magical Creatures Class. He, the second oldest of seven children, the wise one, the kind one, had never been able to express himself the way these mute, magical creatures did. They threw fireballs like spit-wads and tore the ground and forests apart when they hurled their impenetrable bodies into the air – they breathed with passion, lived with violence, and Charlie envied their freedom.

Dragons drew him; they tugged him away from the alluring future of Quidditch fame and the desperate, clinging fingers of his younger sister. They promised him nothing but danger and freedom, but he wanted, needed, nothing more.

For a long time, Charlie considered his life perfect. He had close friends (friends he would die for, die with), an outwardly perfect family (far enough away that he didn't feel the familial pressure and expectations and disappointment), fuck-buddies (honestly, what else could he call them?), and most importantly, a job that he would not give up for anything (nothing could replace the exhilaration he felt when fire smoked a tree beside him or smoldered his hair). But then he learned that _parfait_ was really the word for perfect, and his life never again approached any level of perfection.

She took the ground like a champion, all willowy arms and glowing hair and perfect pale lips curved around snowy teeth (and he longed for that body the way he hadn't longed for anyone in a long, long while.) And all right, maybe he was wrong to think it – but even Harry's flying didn't impress him the way her wand-work had – she flicked her wrist and the Welsh Green was _hers_. She entranced the creature for a moment or two, but she _possessed_ Charlie. The dragon broke out from under her spell (too soon), but he never did, never would (not soon enough). She met the fire swirling around her thighs with calm derision, a jet of water boiling into steam and a golden egg clutched in pale, tender fingers (and he wanted those fingers to slide over the burn on his arm and wrap in his too-long hair and trace the freckles across his shoulder blades.)

He tried to talk to her after the task, tried to tell her that she was gorgeous, _brilliant_, beautiful. He wanted to let her know that she reminded him of one of his Vipertooths (although she may have found that offensive) because she held such a self-confidence, such an incredible internal strength that he _envied, _desired, needed. He wanted to ask her to meet him later that night, and he needed to know if she could possibly, maybe, feel anything (anything at all) for the short, red-haired, freckle-skinned dragon-handler.

But his mother had asked him to check on Harry, and he only had a moment between Harry's task and needing to subdue the dragons. He chose to spend that brief moment the way Molly expected him to, and he never (always) regretted that choice. Because if she had met him first, if she had seen him, heard his confessions…who's to say it would have gone that way, the way it did?

It could have gone a different way. She could have listened to him, recognized in him a hidden passion, and she could have decided to give him a chance, _just one chance_. Because he would have only needed an instant – one second to hover his lips over hers, one minute to hold her hand, one-hundred and twenty seconds to whisper honest pledges into her white-silver-blonde-beautiful-hair. He would only have needed those in-between seconds to turn an instant into years (his _eternity_).

Charlie was not really an anomaly. He loved the way the rest of his family did. He loved with a passion that would – not – free – him. He caught sight of pale skin and blue eyes and his heart clenched, he heard a throaty voice tilting on the tantalizing edge between French and English and his body tensed, her laugh floated in the air and his breath tore through his lungs – caught between an answering laugh and a sob, because it wasn't him – he wasn't the one who brought her joy. Charlie loved the way the rest of his family did because, above all else, he loved _them_. It wasn't dragons, it wasn't Fleur, that drove his decisions. It was Molly-Arthur-Percy-George-Ginny-_Bill_ (and a fond memory of a laughing Fred with boils growing across his face from some experiment gone wrong).

And Bill loved her. Bill had her, and he loved her, and she – she – loved him. Who was Charlie to stand in the way of that, when all he'd ever had was a sacrificed opportunity, all he'd ever known were fantasies?

So when ravaged, broken Bill (and Charlie hated himself, hated that he hadn't been there to protect his family) asked Charlie to be his best man, how could he refuse? How could he tell his brother that he wouldn't (couldn't) be at his wedding, because Charlie himself wanted the bride.

He couldn't tell his older brother that.

So he didn't.

But that didn't change the fact that in his dreams, the day she became Fleur Weasley was the happiest day of his life. It didn't change the fact that in reality, the day she became Fleur Weasley was the day Charlie finally (wholly) surrendered himself to his dragons.

**A/N:** I tried something new/different from my other stories here. I just wanted to give a broad idea of how I see Charlie Weasley (because I refuse to accept J.K. Rowling's explanation that he was too obsessed with his dragons to fall in love.) Charlie was always one of my favorite Weasleys, third to Fred (dammit, JKR) and Ginny, and I wanted to explore him a little more.

I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!

Reviews are welcomed (I'd love to hear what you think of the style, the general idea, and whether Charlie really was too dragon-obsessed for no reason).


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